


Aristophanes

by rei_c



Category: Original Work
Genre: Alcohol, Co-workers, Cuddling & Snuggling, F/M, Female Protagonist, Kissing, POV Female Character, POV Second Person, Shotgunning, Smoking, Workplace Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-18
Updated: 2015-09-18
Packaged: 2018-04-21 07:24:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4820423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rei_c/pseuds/rei_c
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Fuck Aristophanes," he says.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Aristophanes

It's dark at one a.m., late-summer air smelling of damp grass and rain moving in from three counties away.You're sharing a cigarette with him -- bad habit for both of you but it's been a long day and you've moved from rounds of shots at the local bar to travel mugs filled almost to the brim at his place. Others followed in your footsteps from work to bar to home but it's ridiculous to still be awake when you all have a meeting in five hours. The ones with sense are asleep inside or gone home to their own beds, people you never imagined you would come to love with the fierce possession you feel for them; you can hear faint unconscious rebukes from the back bedrooms, snores sending out sound waves that just barely touch your ears but scorch you. 

_They're smarter than we are_ , he says, passing over the cigarette. _We're going to be dead at work tomorrow._

You inhale deeply and hold your breath, stare up at the stars while ants crawl over your bare feet. Your hair smells of smoke, pot and tobacco both, and when you lean over and shotgun the smoke right into his mouth, he tastes of beer and whiskey. 

Alcohol hits you hard, always has, so it's milliseconds before the cigarette's lying forgotten on the ground and his hands are in your hair, your hands on his hips and trying to tug him even closer, like the smoke in your mouths connects you, makes you one, and the reminder of this physical separation is the epitome of wrong. 

You kiss for what feels like hours, as if you're teenagers again, stealing fumbled kisses away from others, hiding in dark corners to disguise what you're doing as if you're the first in human history with racing hearts and sweaty palms. He does this to you: makes you lose time, makes you lose yourself, makes you lose touch with the rest of the world in a way that ends with you lost and delirious and so, so happy. 

_Wouldn't trade it, though_ , you finally reply, the need for air slicing your kiss to ribbons even as you still hold each other close, almost afraid to let go. His fingers have found knots in your hair and made them worse, combed them together into facsimiles of dreadlocks, but his hands cup the curve of your skull and he's warm pressed up against you, arms resting on your shoulders as he meets your eyes and starts to smile. 

He laughs and the sound bounces through the neighbourhood, off of dark houses and flickering streetlights, cars and bushes and trees, so many old trees. You wonder, sometimes, what it would be like to plant roots deep; neither of you is the type, really, but even if he's never admitted it, you can see the longing for something else, something different, something new and old and strange and familiar all at once in his eyes when wanderlust strikes you hard and deep. Belonging, that's what you're both looking for, belonging and a sense of stability. 

Home.

You've only ever felt like that with him. 

You pull away, sit on the porch step, wait as he lights another cigarette before sitting down next to you, one arm around your shoulders and holding you close, safe, to stave off the goosebumps that have risen on your skin. With your chin on your knees, you study the shape of the car across the street as you say, _We'll make it through the meeting, at least. That's really all that matters._

_It doesn't matter_ , he says, pressing a kiss to the skin behind your ear, bare to his lips with your hair all in tangles. _This is what matters. Nights like this. Moments like this._

_I can't believe people are scared of you_ , you say, leaning into him. _You're a giant teddy bear._

He snorts, mutters, _You_ have _been drinking_ , but doesn't otherwise argue. He very rarely disagrees with you and whether that's a desire to keep things between you a steady up and down of calm and fatigue and passion or the simple fact that you think much the same about many things, you're not sure. Many things but not all things -- he's not perfect and neither are you, but the rough edges you both have, the holes and splinters and jagged scars, seem to fit together in a way that makes you wonder if maybe Aristophanes was right all along. 

_Fuck Aristophanes_ , he says.

_I didn't mean to say that out loud_ , you say, after a moment. 

He tugs you closer, so close that when you shift, throw your legs over his and wrap him in a hug, cheek pressed to his shoulder, you can feel the thud-thump of his heart. _I could tell._ You lean up, give him a look, and he holds it as long as he can without laughing. He cracks before you do. He always does. _I'm glad you did, though. There aren't enough chances in the world to say fuck Aristophanes. And fuck Socrates and Plato and Aristotle and anyone else who ever tried to explain this. We don't need a fucking explanation._

There are times when it hurts you to breathe; the feelings you have for him are so strong they come bursting out of your lungs and threaten the stability of your ribs, the sanctity of your spine, the sublimity of your mind. It's almost painful, as if the sun has lodged itself in your throat and is scouring you to dust from the inside out. 

When it goes, though -- and it always does -- you just take his hand in yours, twine your fingers together, cigarette- and ink-stained, callused and strong, and say, _We really should get to bed._

_Yeah_ , he says. 

You finish the rest of the pack before you go back inside, curl up together on the ratty, sagging couch he loves. It's a tight fit, you're both practically on top of the other, but it works. He can exhale across your eyelashes and you can taste the salt-sweat slick of his neck just by opening your mouth. 

Half asleep already, quickly lulled by the rhythm of his breathing and the warmth of the quilt pulled haphazardly over the pair of you, you murmur, _Fuck Aristophanes_.

_Yeah_ , he whispers back. _Fuck those guys_.

And then you sleep.


End file.
